Apple Kush
by Cerise Murmur
Summary: Mello comes home to find Matt...well; there's apple kush. MattxMello; Slight Yaoi...and drugs, obviously.


**Matt seemed the type. Mello seemed the type. They seemed the couple. Apple kush seemed like a good subject. And, there you are. I love reviews, they're probably my favourite thing ever...meaning; you should review. **

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There was so much smoke. The fumes were clouding up the entire apartment, I knew that Mello wouldn't approve, not necessarily because I was killing off however many brain cells, but because I had three windows open and the cop down the street was doing sobriety tests. Fuck him; he wouldn't go through the trouble. I knew for a fact that the people in the apartment building next to ours would be enough to fill his quota.

I licked the soft blunt, like I was making love to it, my tongue glided over the paper effortlessly, capturing the sweet taste of the artificial apple that was encased there. That taste…the only taste that had any familiarity. Well…that and Mello's lips. But that wasn't to be discussed, at least sober.

"Matt, come on" an amused voice floated from the front door, I caught an edge of annoyance, but I didn't care, I was pretty well done. I wondered how long he'd been standing there, but I don't actually think it mattered.

"Smoking my second blunt, it makes Zelda orgasm." I mumbled, my fingers bringing the blunt to my lips, inhaling apple, trying not to let my eyes wander towards Mello. They tended to do that.

"Does it…" Mello sneered, he never approved of me, he never gave me a chance. And once I started smoking with him he began to drink more, and that was his way of saying "if you're going to give yourself lung cancer; I'm just going to die of liver failure." Okay, Mello. At least he didn't lecture me _ab_out dying. At least he'd accepted the fact that we all had to die of something, and lung cancer seemed as good a way as any.

I beckoned Mello over with my free hand, the leather glove made a small squeaking sound as my finger bent awkwardly. I was starting to notice these things…and I would have never asked Mello to come join me…unless this amazing Kush was starting to take effect. Well…I _knew_ it had taken affect long ago.

He raised his eyebrow at me, as if contemplating whether he wanted to brave the territory that was the couch. I turned back to my blunt, deciding that he would come if he would…and all that mattered was this smoke…this beautiful sweet smoke that travelled delicately down my throat and settled warmly in my stomach…but not before making a short stop at my brain, filling the crevices and planes with the precious THC.

I let out the hit, the smoke billowing from my mouth, curling and being sucked into the vents the moment it raised. I had a fleeting thought of wanting to do a lingering shot gun with Mello…to feel his lips cupped hungrily around mine, drinking in the chemical already raped of most of its effects…doing it because he _wanted_ to feel my lips…he _wanted_ to feel something that came from me, that rose from me and entered him and then as he slowly exhaled it, his smoke and mine would mix, and tangle together, indistinguishable.

I felt my head fall heavily upon something…not the solid down of the couch…but something warmer, denser. I turned my head around slightly and saw that Mello had indeed come and sit on the couch with me. His lips turned upwards slightly in an amused smirk, I didn't have the willpower to move off of him, so I just took another hit as I felt myself slip deeper and deeper into wonderful bliss.

"Oh, go on…give me a hit" Mello said softly, plucking the blunt gently from my protesting fingers. The utterance had caught me off guard, but as soon as the blunt left my hand I was glad it did. I wanted him _blazed_, I wanted my shot gun fantasy to come true.

It was funny though, this was true, since when had Mello really smoked? Sure he had smoked pot but he only did when he was drunk enough not to know what was happening. I mean…was this something different? Or was I just overanalyzing things? I probably was…I tended to do that, especially in matters involved Mello.

I watched in fascination as he expertly took the blunt in his mouth and tenderly sucked the fumes from its depths. It was a beautiful sight to behold; I felt his stomach rise and stay raised as he held in the hit. It deflated and the smoke billowed gracefully from his mouth, the scent washed over me and I felt myself sinking lower into his lap…and I felt him relax and let me.

I watched as his lips wrapped around the blunt a second time…and a third…and a forth, and then his hands coaxing me up to his face, I hadn't noticed he was still holding a hit. He cupped my face with one of his hands and brought my mouth to his. He opened his mouth slightly as I brought my lips to his and allowed his breath and the smoke to fill me, I felt the deepest recesses of my lungs expand and warm, the gentle burning comforting. I felt the smoke stop entering…and I felt his lips not leaving mine, the gentle pressure started to build.

I couldn't comprehend what was happening, I felt like I was encompassed in a bubble of haze. I was here…kissing Mello…and his arms were wrapping gently around my waist. The soft warmth was still enveloping us like a blanket, and our lips were still attached, and his tongue was gently licking at my lips…begging for entrance.

I felt my lips part sluggishly for him, I wasn't completely aware of what was going on…but I did know that it was good. And the strange part was…I had no need to do anything more than to kiss him…and cuddle, and touch and touch and taste and taste and to never stop tasting.

He parted the kiss once, but only to take in another hit. He mumbled something about not being as high as me and I laughed softly, noticing the cold as it bit into my lips. The hit was fast, the shot gun longer, and the kiss…just that kiss was enough to get us through the night, enough to last us until next night, when he would hit the bottle and I would hit the grass…or maybe both of us would hit the bottle, or both hit the grass, but we would, we'd get through a whole day on this night. It's what we do, it's what we've always done, and it's life, and it's home, cradled in Mello's arms, not in our right minds but in the one's we liked best.


End file.
